


Etymology

by Sibilant



Series: the flower and willow [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Barebacking, Developing Relationship, First Time, Geisha!Arthur, Loss of Virginity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-22 15:04:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames isn't looking for anything lasting. Somehow, he gets it anyway.</p><p>(or: Arthur is a geisha in 1950s Japan, and Eames is his patron.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'Arthur is a geisha boy, and Eames buys his virginity'.
> 
> Part of me thinks this should go without saying, but here it goes anyway: this fic has zero basis in reality, and features only superficial factual accuracy.

There are eight of them in this room of the _ochaya,_ both boys and girls. Young men and women, really, but Eames feels like playing the role of dirty lech tonight, so boys and girls it is. All of them are prim, all of them are proper, save for that cultivated artful look - the one that promises everything, but guarantees only with a given price.

Eames thinks he could learn a thing or two, should he ever feel the need to fine tune his come-hither glance for an alter ego, as he watches the geishas at work. They all ensure their eyes don’t linger on any particular guest, until a guest comes near. Then it’s a careful flick of eyes upward, a curve of a smile, followed by a coy glance away. They’re all very good, well-trained at what they do.

And they’re all seemingly uniform in their loveliness, given the thick layer of white face paint and the painted mouths - elaborate wigs for the girls and smoothly combed back hair for the boys; bright kimonos and obi everywhere. Eames knows that the allure of the geisha comes from, in part, what they represent, not what they actually look like. Simply the semblance of beauty is enough, he supposes, given that most men can’t afford to support a geisha - with their fees and expenses - full time when they’ll only see them once in a blue moon.

But Eames _can_ afford a geisha’s fees and expenses, and he’s a man who plays the long game, invests in things long term. So if he’s going to play the patron - the _danna,_ Saito had said - to a geisha, he’s going to need them to be more than just lovely via the mask. Eames knows how to look past masks, and he’s not going to relegate himself to what may be months of staring at ugly bone structure beneath paint if he doesn’t have to.

As it is, he’s already knocked three of them off his shortlist because, when he’d spoken to them in English, their own English skills hadn’t been up to scratch. Eames’ Japanese is, admittedly, more than passable. But he intends to play the role of a feckless, aristocratic British fop for as long as he’s bunkered down in Japan, so that calls for some Old World patronising disdain. Some of the geishas have grown wary of his attitude, yet there are still half that are interested, and more in the other rooms of the ochaya besides.

“Keep this up and you won’t get _any_ geisha,” Saito murmurs from beside him, in English. Eames keeps his voice correspondingly low when he replies:

“You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, if I don’t rein in my fastidiousness at that. I’m not inclined to bed someone I can’t look in the face, even if I’m paying them. Especially if I’m paying them.”

“They’re entertainers, not prostitutes,” Saito scolds, sniffing as he knocks back his sake. “You are paying for someone lovely to pour your drinks, along with some clever conversation and innuendo.”

“That’s not what I heard. That’s not what you told me last week.”

“You westerners,” Saito chuckles. But he drops all the mock-outrage. “Very well. You can pay to sleep with them, and you have a few choices. Become a danna, like I told you — I am sure all the geisha here who do not have one are eyeing you already — or,” and Saito drawls out the ‘or’, smiling, “you could bid for an apprentice geisha’s _mizuage._ ”

Eames raises an eyebrow; he has an inkling of what Saito means, judging by the indolent drawl and suggestive smile, but he waits for Saito to explain.

“Mizuage is… well, it is several things. An apprentice’s coming of age, for one. The female apprentices have their topknots cut off symbolically. There is a ceremony and such, for both genders. But—” Saito’s smile takes on a sly cast as he leans in closer to Eames’ side and drops his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. Eames strains to hear him above the low buzz of conversation between the other guests and the geishas. “—the mizuage is also connected to an apprentice’s virginity. Once an apprentice is ready to make their debut, the right to sponsor their mizuage goes up for bidding. Whoever wins the bid has the right to, well—” Saito shrugs, smile still playing about his mouth.

Well. Well indeed.

Still, Eames has to make a face. “And you only thought to tell me about this practice now?”

“It hardly seemed the type of thing that would pique your interest.”

Eames sits back. He runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth, behind closed lips, his expression thoughtful. But Saito is right. It isn’t. The fact that he likes the idea at all is rather surprising. Perhaps it’s the mystique, then. Perhaps it’s a little fetishising of the exotic that he’s indulging in here, because Lord knows Eames doesn’t chase virgins.

Eames likes his partners experienced. He likes them to know what they like; to know where, and how hard, and how often they want him to give it to them. He has no use for virgins. No use for awkward fumbling or hesitant touches. He has no illusions about purity and first times, because all that those words indicate to Eames is unnecessary effort, the risk of regretful tears at the conclusion, or even changed minds halfway through — bollocks to that.

But bidding for an apprentice’s virginity — well, that cuts out all possibility of regret or changed minds, doesn’t it? All the coy tease of a geisha’s usual behaviour paired with intent and a promise of satisfaction.

Hard for a man not to like that.

So he stops looking at the senior geisha entirely. Focuses on the apprentices, easily discernible by their much more brightly patterned kimono. Dismisses two instantly — they were part of the set who couldn’t speak English, the other being a senior geisha — to focus on the remaining five. After a minute’s consideration, he elects to strike the girls from his list entirely. Risk of pregnancy, however remote, is not something he wants to entertain.

So that leaves him with the choice of two lissom, lovely boys (that he wouldn’t get one or the other doesn’t even enter into his mind — he’s wealthy, he’s good looking; what could be the issue?). The one further away is taller, with a full mouth that resembles Eames’ own. He appears to be the more accomplished of the two, surrounded by more men — likely closer to being made a full geisha than the other, who sits with a crowd of his own — but it’s smaller, quieter.

Eames peers at him.

This one’s not Japanese or, at least, not entirely. Slightly European cast to the jawline, the cheekbones. Eurasian, most likely, and _that’s_ interesting. Dark eyes that flick in Eames’ direction then away, without the veiled flirtation usually present in a geisha’s glance — it’s most likely why this apprentice’s crowd is smaller. But Eames keeps up the stare, because he likes oddities, and his persistence is rewarded with a second glance. Only a fraction longer, but enough to catalogue that those eyes are lovely.

His decision beginning to solidify, Eames tilts his head, sits back, and waits.

Soon enough, the apprentice boy begins making the rounds, moving in a circuitous pattern around the room; speaking to guests, pouring sake, but — with each guest — moving closer and closer to Eames. Saito looks back and forth between Eames and the geisha boy, disbelieving amusement bright in his smile.

And finally, _finally_ the boy is in range, settling down just outside of Eames’ personal space and instantly reaching for the ceramic sake flask. He has to stretch forward to do it, exposing the nape of his neck, where the skin is left deliberately unpainted; bare. Every single geisha sports the same make up pattern, but the way the boy exposes his neck is so artlessly appealing that Eames wonders contrarily if he’d done it with intent.

He stares at that bare patch of skin for a little longer then covers his sake cup before the boy can do little more than lean toward Eames, intending to pour. Eames leans forward, head tilted like he’s angling in for a kiss — presumptuous and overly familiar, as a man long used to getting his own way. He lowers his voice to a rumbling timbre as he says, in English, “Now, this isn’t the face of a Japanese boy. Where’re you from, pet?”

Slight arch of eyebrows and a voice that’s lower than Eames expects. Perfect English when he says, “I was born in Japan, Mr. Eames.” Avoiding the true nature of Eames’ enquiry entirely, and it doesn’t surprise Eames one bit that the boy had found out his name before coming to sit beside him. Still, he affects surprise, saying:

“And I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, knowing my name. What’s your name, then?”

“Takehiko,” the boy says, moving to pour again.

Eames makes a face and tuts. His hand is still covering the sake cup, but he slides it closer to himself for good measure. “What’s your true name?”

That has the desired effect, as the boy’s startled into looking directly at him. Dark, dark eyes, and Eames takes the time to appreciate them. They’re even lovelier up close; rich and dark as fine chocolate, or Italian espresso — things clearly meant to be savoured.

Those dark eyes mirror over then. The false, cultivated smile comes into play, and Eames is paradoxically delighted to witness it. “Such a serious question, Mr. Eames. And so soon, too. Maybe too soon to be discussed. Things like true names have value, you know,” the boy says — Eames won’t think of him as Takehiko, because he’s _not_ — and the sly tone that touches his voice on _‘Mr. Eames’_ says he doesn’t really believe that’s Eames’ name.

He’s right and he isn’t — but he’s a clever thing for picking up on it at all, and Eames is charmed, and pleased with himself; certain he’s making the right choice. “Are you implying there’s a price for your real name then?” He holds back on putting on a leer, although perhaps he shouldn’t, it would be more in-character—

“I didn’t say that at all. I was merely saying my real name has value.”

“To whom?”

“To me,” the boy says, amused. “And perhaps to you too, Mr. Eames.”

Cheeky. Eames says, with one eyebrow raised, “Doesn’t something having value imply it has a price?”

“No. Value implies that a thing has _worth._ ”

“Ambiguous meanings?”

“Exactly.” The boy smiles; it’s a small, sweet smile that makes Eames’ mouth curl in reply.

 _What kind of geisha flirts by talking about principles of economics?_ Eames wonders. Then again, Eames is still talking to him, so perhaps there’s a method to the boy’s madness. Still, if he wants to argue economics— “You set price against perceived benefit when determining value. So I ask again: is there a price on your real name?”

“Is there some perceived benefit in knowing my real name?”

Maddening. Delightful. “Perhaps,” Eames says slowly, his head cocked. “It could allow us to reach a more intimate footing,” he adds, and he may not be a geisha, but he’s had long years as a con man, and he’s more than capable of lacing his voice with quiet innuendo. He leaves his sake cup close to him, but takes his hand off of it.

For the first time since sitting down, the boy hesitates. Another quick glance at Eames — taking in the cut of his suit, the thickness of the material; the way Eames has loosened his tie because he’s flushed from the sake, having been here for hours, drinking and uncaring at the cost of paying the geishas’ _ohana_.

It means he has money to spare.

That settles it for his geisha boy, Eames can see it in the set of the boy’s jaw. And it should be insulting that he’s being considered purely on the basis of his wealth, but Eames is being just as superficial, and he’s pleased with the directness of it all, beneath the ceremony.

The boy leans in close, exposing the nape of his neck again, and pours.

 

—

 

They’re alone, alone, blessedly _alone_ at last.

The mizuage ceremony had been interminable. And Eames respects other cultures, he does, he truly does - he wouldn’t spend so much of his time abroad if he didn’t. But the anticipation had begun churning beneath his skin, searing hot, almost immediately after he’d set eyes on his geisha boy - and he _is_ Eames’ now - knowing he’s here entirely for Eames.

(He’d wound up in a bidding war for his boy’s mizuage, much to Saito’s boundless amusement. It had gone on for so long, bid after increasing bid, that he’d wondered if he was competing against _Saito_ \- if Saito was doing it to torture him. He’d had a brief moment of panic at that, because his wealth was but a drop in the ocean compared to Saito’s. But he’d endured, kept topping the competing bids, until finally the last unknown competitor had dropped away.)

His boy is serving him sake again, and Eames watches the smooth motions of hands and wrists in the dim light of the room. He wants to wrap his fingers around the bones of those wrists, wants to bring a hand up to his mouth and bite at his boy’s long fingers.

“We ought to finish our discussion,” Eames says, rather than touching him, although he wants to - _oh,_ how he wants to.

“Our discussion, Mr. Eames?” his boy repeats archly, almost smiling. “We’ve had so many interesting ones over the past few weeks, I can’t possibly know which you’re referring to.” It’s completely artificial, more coquettish than Eames is used to from his boy, and it makes Eames’ nose wrinkle. But he knows the artifice is stemming from nerves and he takes pity. He’s direct when he says:

“Our very first discussion, on the value of your true name. It was left unfinished.”

“Oh.” Just _‘oh’_. It’s as un-geisha-like a response as one can get, and Eames wants to laugh. Not at his boy, not exactly, but at the sudden contrast.

“I think I’ve earned the right to know, pet,” he says gently.

No acquiescence. “You paid for my mizuage,” his boy says, voice even, “but the mizuage doesn’t include that.” He even manages a small smile, but it’s not his well practiced one. It’s tense at the corners, resistant. Eames wonders if he can coax him successfully out of it.

“Shall we make a game out of it, then?” he says lightly. “I’ll guess your name and, if I’m right, you’ll nod. No need to tell me.”

No response.

Eames decides to forge ahead. He says musingly, “Takehiko is an odd name to give a geisha. The first part of your name, _Take-,_ is because your older brother is named Takeru, but the kanji for his name means ‘health’. Yours is written with the kanji for ‘warrior’. It’s hardly a common choice, for a geisha. So, we’re looking for a name that’s war-like. Am I on the right path so far?”

His boy is surprised, that much is clear. He nods, then looks at Eames more carefully, mouth twisted up beneath the red paint. He seems to be deliberating, before finally saying, “Arthur. My name is Arthur.” He holds his breath like he’d expected saying it to hurt.

Eames instantly reaches out to soothe because, although he’s a practical man, he’s not an insensitive man and this, for whatever reason, is a sensitive issue for his boy — Arthur. “Arthur,” Eames repeats, rolling the name on his tongue, tasting the syllables. Of course his name is Arthur. Eames knows the etymology of the name, like every good British public schoolboy does.

Arthur of the stone. Arthur the bear king, Arthur the warrior king. Of course.

He only realises he’s said those thoughts out loud when Arthur smiles abruptly, cheeks dimpling beneath the white paint.

Eames cups him by the jaw and draws him in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was recently brought to my attention that not everyone knows I have a [tumblr](http://sibilantly.tumblr.com). So I'm slowly moving my long tumblr fics onto AO3. It's probably also easier to read.
> 
> This fic was initially started in February. I semi-abandoned it for reasons I won't bore you all with. It's finally being completed for Inceptiversary's ['Finish Your WIPs' challenge](http://inceptiversary.livejournal.com/15588.html).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many grateful thanks to my betas [smugrobotics](http://archiveofourown.org/users/smugrobotics), [saeadame](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Saeadame), and [pyromancer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pyromancer) for reading through this in its various draft stages, managing my unwieldy sentences, cheerleading me on, and generally just dragging my arse over the finish line. I don't deserve you guys.

Arthur’s smile vanishes and he goes stock-still the instant their mouths touch, but Eames doesn’t let that deter him. Keeping Arthur’s jaw cupped firmly with one hand, Eames nudges Arthur’s lips apart and traces his tongue experimentally along Arthur’s bottom lip. To his delight, Arthur shivers - honestly _shivers_ \- at that, and there’s only a brief— not hesitance, but a brief _resistance_ before Arthur starts to return the kiss.

Arthur kisses carefully, like he’s trying to learn his way. He doesn’t kiss like he knows what he’s doing, but he kisses without fear. It tugs at something perverse in Eames, makes him wonder how far he’d have to push to break that calm. His inclination to keep this slow - mindful of Arthur’s inexperience - is drowned out in a skin-prickling wash of arousal. Arthur is lovely in his composure, but Eames doesn’t want composed.

He wants Arthur wide-eyed, off-kilter. He wants him flushed, gasping and squirming as Eames touches him everywhere he’s never been touched before.

Eames breaks the kiss, breathing roughly. He divests himself of his tie, of his trousers and pants, as quickly as he’s able. His cock is hard, already wet and curving up toward his belly, and Eames doesn’t miss Arthur’s quick, nervous glance downward.

He leans in, noses along Arthur’s hairline until he reaches the shell of his ear. “I’m not a gentle man, Arthur,” he murmurs. “Nor am I gentleman. But I’ll be as gentle as I’m able.” He means it honestly, but Eames has been told before that he wears honesty poorly. Judging by the way Arthur’s chin goes up, it had likely come out as patronising.

“I don’t need you to be gentle, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, confirming Eames’ thoughts. The look in his eyes is challenging, not coy, and Eames should gently correct that bravado, but the arousal is sinking deeper into his skin. He chuckles instead, low and quiet.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He starts backing Arthur up, unbuttoning his own shirt as he goes, before dropping his hands back down to Arthur’s waist. The silk of the kimono is smooth beneath his hands, and Eames slides his hands around until he can hook a finger into the knot of Arthur’s obi. It’s not a complicated knot - likely a deliberate decision on _someone’s_ part, if not necessarily Arthur’s - and it gives way after only a few insistent tugs.

Arthur sucks in a breath and stumbles then, but Eames doesn’t catch him. He braces himself instead, and lets the momentum drag them down. By pure chance, they land mostly on the futon, Eames hand cradling the back of Arthur’s head to soften the impact. He props himself up on one hand and stares down at Arthur, at his boy. Arthur stares back, his eyes satisfyingly wide.

Without breaking his gaze, Eames parts the folds of Arthur’s kimono. He runs his hand along the length of one thigh, from knee to hip, and his breath comes even quicker. It’s been a week - a long, long week - and Eames _wants_. Arthur thighs are shaking slightly - _ever-so-slightly_ \- and God if that doesn’t send a spike of _something_ through Eames.

He moves down the length of Arthur’s body, nudging Arthur’s knees apart as he goes, and settles himself between them. Arthur’s eyes grow impossibly wider, but Eames ignores that and wraps a hand around Arthur’s ankle. It’s as fine boned as the rest of him, but not as delicate as Eames would have thought. There’s strength in the tendons, in the calf muscle that’s tensing up beneath his fingers.

Eames presses his thumb in firmly and starts massaging. “Tell me,” he says. “how much experience do you have with this?”

There’s a small pause. “None,” Arthur replies. “I’ve never—” he starts to add, before something - nerves, perhaps - makes him fall silent.

Eames does his best to hide his smirk. “Tell me honestly, Arthur. I’m not an unreasonable man. I won’t go charging back to your okiya demanding a refund just because you’ve kissed a few girls or boys. Or maybe did a little bit more than that.”

Arthur’s mouth twists into a moue of irritation before he apparently remembers himself. “I haven’t done anything, Mr. Eames,” he says, with greater equilibrium. “I didn’t have much opportunity.” And Eames’ skepticism must show at that, because Arthur adds, “Mother kept a close eye on me.”

Oh. _Well._

“Really,” Eames says, drawing out the word, speculative and delighted.

“Really,” Arthur replies. The line of his mouth is unyielding, and there’s sudden determination in his eyes. He looks like he’s committing himself to battle, like his warrior king namesake, and that just won’t do.

Eames tuts, lets go of Arthur’s ankle, and leans up. He cradles Arthur’s jaw firmly and slots their mouths together once more. He runs his tongue along Arthur’s lip to get that shiver again, that breath-stuttering shudder. Does it over and over, until Arthur’s mouth goes slack beneath his, until Arthur’s clutching at his shoulders, small, breathless sounds slipping out of him.

Eames pulls away just enough so he can press his mouth to Arthur’s ear. He can feel Arthur’s pulse throbbing quickly against his fingertips. “I’m going to bed you, Arthur,” he says, quiet and deliberate. He bites gently at Arthur’s earlobe. “But first I’d like to see how you touch yourself.”

Arthur jumps like he’s been burned, and Eames doesn’t bother to hold back his smirk this time. He pulls back further to take in Arthur’s startled expression. “Not what you were expecting?”

There’s another slight twist to Arthur’s mouth, another delightful flash of defiance, or perhaps irritation. “No,” Arthur admits finally. “It wasn’t.”

Eames brushes a butterfly-light kiss against his temple. “Wonderful. I do love to surprise people.”

He pushes himself up so he can sits back on his haunches. He gazes steadily at Arthur, patient but unyielding, until Arthur takes a shaky breath and slides a hand beneath his kimono to take himself in hand. Eames twitches the fabric aside further.

Arthur is barely half-hard, but it takes only a few slow, steady strokes to get him the rest of the way. Another few strokes and Arthur’s eyes squeeze shut, his hips start hitching upward. The pace picks up as he begins fucking into the tight clutch of his fist in a not-quite even rhythm.

He’s lovely, utterly gorgeous. Unselfconscious and wanton and fearless, and _God_ , Eames wants nothing more than to slide into the tightness of him. But Arthur seems to have almost forgotten Eames is with him, and that’s the last thing Eames wants. After a moment’s deliberation, Eames shifts forward, back onto his knees. He cradles Arthur’s hips in his hands then leans down, opens his mouth, and laps at the head of Arthur’s cock.

Arthur arches upward with a startled cry.

Eames doesn’t lift his head, keeps his lips pressed to against the sticky-wet slit. He waits until Arthur goes still beneath him again, thighs trembling harder than ever, before saying, “Keep going.”

“I don’t—” Arthur starts, sounding confused. “You want me to...” He gives his cock a small jerk rather than finish that sentence.

Eames smiles. “I want you to,” he says. He laves the flat of his tongue over the head again, tightens his hands when Arthur’s hips jerk involuntarily. He listens as Arthur takes a few unsteady breaths. When Arthur resumes stroking himself, Eames rewards him with a leisurely suck.

They fall into a slow, easy rhythm. Eames licks and sucks away the wetness that drips onto his tongue in counterpoint to the movement of Arthur’s fist. He catalogues the shifts of Arthur’s body, the sounds he makes, and commits them to memory. There are breathless pants, almost sobs, and choked moans, but there’s nothing like reluctance in those noises.

And it’s only when the timbre of those noises changes - when the moans begin to overtake the gasps - that Eames pushes Arthur’s hand away, swallows him down, and starts sucking earnest. When Arthur honest-to-God _whimpers,_  Eames pauses only long enough to say, “That’s a love,” before returning to the task - if that sounds patronising, he’s certain that Arthur is too far gone to notice.

It takes less than a minute of steady sucking before Arthur’s thighs go tense, his fingers scrabbling at the futon. Eames takes one hand off Arthur’s hip then, strokes over his balls and then behind. He presses his fingertips firmly against the hot, thin strip of skin and, just like that, Arthur comes, back arched and bucking helplessly, with a strangled gasp that sounds like it’s been ripped from his throat.

Eames licks Arthur clean while Arthur shivers beneath him, trying to catch his breath. When he finally raises his head to gauge Arthur’s state, he finds Arthur gazing up at the ceiling in consternation, brow slightly furrowed.

“Alright, pet?” Eames asks, rubbing his thumb against Arthur’s hip.

Arthur blinks. “I—” he says, with a deliciously rough edge to his voice. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yes. I’m alright. But...” He glances at Eames and his voice trails off as his gaze travels downward.

Eames’ cock is a heavy, distracting ache between his legs, but Eames ignores it in favour of catching up one of Arthur’s hands and biting lightly at his fingers, one by one. He’s paid handsomely for his boy, for this night, and he fully intends to take his time. He smiles at Arthur, slow and dark, and says, “We have the entire night.”

 

-

There’s a cabinet at the side of the room, thoughtfully filled with everything they could conceivably need; perhaps it was stocked by the same person who’d tied Arthur’s obi. Eames plucks a vial of oil from one of the drawers and deems it satisfactory after giving it a cursory sniff.

When he returns, Arthur is sitting up, his kimono arranged back into some semblance of order. It’s wholly unnecessary, given Eames’ intentions, but Eames finds himself charmed by the display of propriety nevertheless.

The proper thing to do now, Eames knows, is undress Arthur entirely. But proper is the further thing from Eames’ mind. He straddles Arthur, pushes forward until Arthur is sprawled back on his elbows and their faces are inches from one another’s. Arthur’s dark eyes have grown impossibly darker - pupils dilated, gaze fixed.

Eames tilts his head and brushes his mouth against Arthur’s. This time, when he pulls back, Arthur follows, chasing Eames’ mouth with his own. The first kiss is a dry, chaste press of lips. But on the second kiss, Arthur turns daring. He opens his mouth, and the touch of his tongue against Eames’ has Eames rocking forward before he knows it.

It’s Arthur who finally breaks the kiss, and Eames can see the shadow of a dimple in one cheek as Arthur says, “If I recall correctly, you said were going to bed me, Mr. Eames.” And _there’s_ the wonderfully arch, teasing tone Eames remembers from the ochaya.

Eames smirks but doesn’t reply; simply unstoppers the vial and gets his fingers slick as Arthur watches. Arthur’s eyes have gone round again, but there’s no brittle tension in the set of his shoulders, no nervousness in his gaze, and Eames is glad he took the time to wring a climax from Arthur before doing this. Eames doesn’t doubt his skill in bed, but no matter how slowly he goes, his boy is likely going to feel some pain.

He pushes the folds of Arthur’s kimono aside again; reaches down between Arthur’s legs, behind his balls, and brushes a finger - just one - over Arthur’s hole. Arthur’s breathing goes slightly uneven as Eames rubs at the furled flesh, but he stays just as he is, his body loose and relaxed and _trusting_. Eames lets out a low groan and pushes the tip of his finger in.

He pauses to let Arthur adjust, but Arthur just lets out a sharp breath. When Eames meets his gaze, the challenging look is back. Eames wants to ask if that’s really the sort of look a geisha should be giving their mizuage patron, but the words are lost as Arthur cants his hips upward, and Eames’ finger slips in almost to the second knuckle.

“Arthur,” Eames breathes out, startled and delighted in equal measure.

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies, smiling wide enough that Eames can see the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Eames narrows his eyes, even as his mouth curls up in an answering smile. He shifts his finger, moving it carefully until Arthur gives an abrupt, whole body jerk and his smile vanishes as his mouth drops open on a shocked moan.

Eames smirks and works his finger in and out, making sure to brush over the gland on every other stroke. He waits for Arthur’s hips to start twitching restlessly before adding another finger. Eames takes his time working Arthur open, adding more slick and getting him wetter with every unhurried twist of his wrist.

It isn’t until Arthur begins squirming, pushing back onto Eames’ fingers, his legs seemingly parting of their own volition, that Eames elects to withdraw his fingers. He slicks his cock - barely noticing the excess that drips onto Arthur’s kimono - and nudges Arthur’s legs apart, urging one of his knees higher. His breathing turns unsteady as he lines his cock up.

Eames doesn’t ask if Arthur is ready, or if Arthur wants this. He isn’t a gentleman, he never has been, and the way Arthur tilts his hips up to meet Eames’ is invitation and affirmation enough.

Arthur takes a sharp, ragged breath and bares his teeth on Eames’ first push in. Eames slows, but he doesn’t stop - not completely. Because Arthur doesn’t need gentle - he’d said as much, and Eames is keeping that in mind - but mostly because the arousal banked beneath Eames’ skin is rising in dizzying rush. Still, he sinks into Arthur so slowly that he almost wonders if he’s moving at all, until finally - _finally_ \- he feels his balls brush the curve of Arthur’s arse. Arthur makes a muffled sound, and it’s a mistake for Eames to look down, because the sight of Arthur gets him groaning, gritting his teeth as he fights the urge to come right there and then.

Arthur’s head is tipped back against the futon, his hair coming free of its slicked back smoothness. He’s still swaddled in the heavy silk kimono, but his legs are splayed wide around Eames’ hips, and his collar has been tugged askew; it falls open wide enough that Eames can see flushed pink skin beyond the edges of the white makeup.

He looks shockingly young and gloriously debauched, and Eames can’t help but thrust a little into the tight heat of him. He half-expects Arthur to protest, or arch away, but Arthur doesn’t. He makes a quiet, wonderfully _needy_ sound instead, and that does it.

He’d intended— something; Eames can’t quite remember now. Something about drawing this out, about savouring this, but now that he’s buried all the way inside Arthur, Eames isn’t sure he’ll last even a minute. He’s already far too close to the edge from working Arthur loose and open. That doesn’t stop him from pushing and pulling at Arthur’s legs until they’re hitched over his shoulders; it doesn’t stop him from pressing closer, forcing Arthur’s body to bend for him.

And Arthur does bend, yielding just as sweetly as Eames had imagined he would, and— “Oh Christ, _Arthur,_ look at you,” Eames says.

Arthur’s mouth opens but Eames doesn’t give him a chance to respond. He pulls back, his hands braced against the backs of Arthur’s thighs, and fucks into him with a quick snap of his hips. He does it again and again, bringing himself closer to the brink with each stroke - too fast and too soon, but helpless to stop.

Arthur is rocking up to meet him, eyes squeezed shut and gasping out a litany of half-formed words all the while. He has one hand fisted in his own hair, gripping so tight Eames can see the white of his knuckles beneath skin.

“Easy, easy,” Eames soothes, over the sound of Arthur’s gasping. He takes his hands off Arthur’s thighs, although it means losing some of that stomach-curling depth; drops his weight onto one arm, presses closer, as he tugs Arthur’s hand away from his hair with his free hand.

Eames coaxes Arthur’s hand open, still fucking him, and laces their fingers together tightly. He brings that hand up to his mouth; kisses the knuckles. Arthur’s eyes fly open. Eames has only a second to savour that fixed, wide-eyed stare before Arthur’s thighs go tense, before Arthur comes again, ruining his kimono and slicking Eames’ belly. He squeezes Eames’ hand until the bones grind together, clenches down around Eames, and there’s nothing that Eames can do then to stop himself from hurtling over the edge.

He comes with a groan, his mouth still pressed to the smooth skin of Arthur’s knuckles, and his gaze still trapped in Arthur’s impossibly dark stare.

 

-

Arthur’s still flat on his back on the futon, but there’s a looseness to his limbs now, a sprawling indolence that fills Eames with satisfaction. He props himself up on one elbow and smiles down at his boy.

“Now how does this work, exactly?” Eames asks. “Do I contact you, or do I contact your... okiya? When I wish to see you again?”

Arthur’s eyebrows go up. “Mr. Eames,” he says slowly. “Did anyone explain to you what bidding for a mizuage actually entails?”

Eames gives him a very long look. Based on their current state - Arthur with his flushed cheeks, and the sheen of sweat still on their bodies - Eames thinks he knows exactly what bidding for Arthur’s mizuage entailed.

Arthur smiles abruptly, dimples popping into existence again, and shakes his head. His hair has mostly come free of the lacquer, and it’s surprisingly unruly. “A patron bids only for an apprentice’s virginity, Mr. Eames. It doesn’t guarantee anything else.”

Eames’ stomach drops.

 _Bloody—_ Saito hadn’t told him _that,_ he thinks, furious. Then he puts a leash on his anger. Of course Saito hadn’t told him. Saito had assumed Eames was looking to sleep with a geisha as a once-off, and he’d provided Eames with the most direct options to do so.

But Eames doesn’t want a once-off now.

He settles back against the pillows. “All right then,” he says. “How do I go about becoming your danna, then?”

Arthur looks taken aback, but he recovers admirably. “You— you speak to Mother at the ochaya. She’ll make arrangements for you to meet Mother at the okiya.”

Meetings to arrange meetings. It sounds maddeningly byzantine, but Eames thinks his boy just might be worth it. He nods wordlessly and draws Arthur against his side; rubs and kneads at Arthur’s shoulder until the muscles relax beneath his palm.

“Just like that?” Arthur asks, his voice full of wonder.

Eames shrugs, winding a lock of Arthur’s hair around his finger. “Just like that.”


End file.
